


Patching Up

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Series: Intermissions [1]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Getting Back Together, Missing Scene, Naked Male Clothed Female, Post-Clear, Vague spoilers in tags, Welcome To Hell Update Spoilers, Whipping, late-game spoilers, what do you call it when you write the fade-to-black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21901636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: He obeys, and comes to her.
Relationships: Megaera/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Series: Intermissions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657159
Comments: 7
Kudos: 155





	Patching Up

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to be all bashful about writing the fade-to-black but you know what? All any of you know about me is my fanfiction, so from your POV this is exactly in-character for me. I can live with that. Anyway I have experienced the _full_ range of emotions that one human can have about a video game about the Welcome to Hell update, but that sprite animation ( **you know the one** ) overwrote _all_ of them, so while I'm getting my meta brain back online, please enjoy this porn. There is, god willing, at least one more coming. No it's not the Thanatos fade-to-black but yes Thanatos is involved.

He obeys, and comes to her. 

He’s just like he used to be, everything sensible draining out of him like wine from a burst jug as soon as she takes out her whip. He mumbles something distracted and nonsensical, running his hand through his hair as he crosses the room, and then he’s in front of her, looking and waiting and _wanting_. 

It’s harder than she expected to keep her cool. She came here because she wanted him, yes, because she wanted to see him want her again, but she’d forgotten, in the intervening time, just how potent his desire is. He looks at her like he’d forget to breathe if she didn’t tell him to. 

“How do you want me?” he asks, voice quivering a bit, when she does not immediately instruct him. Because apparently he hasn’t learned any patience. She answers by gripping his hair with her free hand and twisting and pulling down _hard_. His knees buckle and hit the ground; he stays there. His hands drift behind his back as though she’s bound them. She rewards him with a smirk. 

“You’re trembling, Zagreus,” she observes. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“No.” He punctuates it with a rapid shake of his head. “Meg—”

She waits a moment, to see if he actually has something to say or if that’s just the first stir of begging. More the latter than the former, it seems. She releases his hair and smooths it back into place; it’s warmer than an animal skin laid by the fire. 

“You want me to punish you.”

It goes without saying, but she wants him to affirm it. And affirm it he does, his gaze going dizzy and his breath stuttering. He nods, entranced. 

“For the way you treated me,” she continues. She doesn’t say _for how you hurt me_ , because he doesn’t get to hear those words, but it’s how he’ll understand it regardless. “And for all the havoc you sowed in the House on your little crusade.”

“Yes,” he breathes, eyes locked on to hers. Yes, he wants that. He bleeds his wanting into the air around him, and Megaera can feel it, a sudden thick despair and a grasping fixation on the way out that she’s offering him. It would be easy, here, to be pulled along with it. To wrench her hands into the crack in his guilt and tear it wide open so that he _has_ to feel it, so that it swallows him up but for her presence pinning him to reality. She’s done it before. She can already feel the scorn and anger catch in her like a flame, waking her up and focusing her, but the way he wants it is, has always been, so _lost_ —

Exhaling quietly, she smooths down Zagreus’s hair again. “I’m not going to do that,” she tells him. It shocks him; the air goes out of him in a choked huff and his eyes—oh, those eyes—search her face. She looks back at him, unwavering.

She lied earlier; it seems she can’t hate him after all. 

Cupping a hand under his chin, she says, “You’ll have to sort that out on your own time. I’m going to hurt you just because you like it.”

“ _oh_.” His voice comes out small. He closes his eyes and drops his shoulders so that his chin rests more heavily in her hand. “I do like it,” he confesses, warm and vulnerable and yearning.

“I know you do, Zag.” She lifts the handle of her whip and trails it down the line of muscle in his neck, watching his Adam’s apple quiver with a gulp. She makes her voice colder when she speaks again, and tosses the whip lightly onto the bed. “But if it’s not going to be a punishment, you’re going to have to earn what you want.”

His eyes open again, fervent and focused. They’ve played this game before. “What should I do, Meg?”

“I want your mouth.”

He’s moving almost before she gets the words out, his warm hands lifting her skirt so that he can pull her armor and leggings out of his way. She steps out of them, though she’d like him to be gentler, more patient; but before she can hiss at him to take his time about it, he buries himself in her, his mouth against her sex, and all the heat in her body rushes to meet his touch. “ _Fuck_ —” she gasps. “ _Zagreus_ —” 

She clutches at the top of his head, at first to keep herself from bucking as his tongue gets involved, but then for control, for control. She pulls him back and makes him meet her eyes. “Slow down,” she orders, voice cold enough to stay even, and he half-whines in return. He doesn’t want to slow down. Well, it isn’t up to him. She holds his head in place and _makes_ him be attentive, not just forceful and needy. 

But it’s been a long time, and his opening strike was enough to get her halfway there in one motion. It’s not long before her orgasm twists tight within her and then crests and breaks. Her eyes slip closed for a moment as the feeling passes through her. The way her breath escapes sounds almost like a laugh. 

Zagreus’s mouth presses against the inside of her thigh, slow and warm. “Another?” he offers.

She breathes out. “Yes,” she answers him, “lean back.” She guides him backwards until his head rests on the bed; then she lifts one leg, sliding her knee over the covers next to him, and straddles his mouth. With an appreciative sound in the back of his throat, he begins again. Slower this time, more deliberate, his tongue searching her, but soon he is gliding one hand up the back of her thigh; his fingers trace through her folds and draw a barely-there circle around her entrance. She swallows.

“Megaera, may I…?”

“Yes,” she says, and his fingers slip inside her and hook into the spot that makes her catch her breath. Oh, he _does_ still know her, doesn’t he? The feeling builds again as he sucks on her, as he pumps his fingers into her with an unflinching pace, as her hips twitch above him—and then she’s there, spine arcing suddenly as her climax bursts within her and she has to hold herself up with one hand on the bed. Zagreus continues, pulling her through it and pulling more out of her, until she manages a deep breath and a long, steadying exhale. She steps back, away from the bed, away from Zagreus. He, too, exhales. His chin glistens with the evidence of how well he pleased her. Beneath his chiton, a hard-on strains against his leggings. 

He straightens his posture somewhat, rolling his head on his neck to relieve whatever ache that position had induced, and looks at her, fidgety. “How was that?” he asks. 

It was incredible and she’d forgotten, in the midst of everything else—the energy he sucked up and the obstinacy and the bitter arguments—just how much she liked this about him. But she doesn’t tell him that. Coolly, she corrects her skirt and tucks some nonexistent stray hair back into its ponytail. “This used to be where you’d demand a reward for your good behavior,” she remarks, and nothing more.

She sees in his eyes that he still wants to do exactly that, that he’s on the verge of squirming with need. Her whip is only a foot away from him and she thinks he must be inescapably aware of it, held taut by desire. But what he says is, “Maybe I’ve matured a bit?”

Privately, she entertains the notion and finds that she is willing to agree. With caveats. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to just give him what he wants. Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head, she asks, “Do you think you’re ready for a whipping, then? Or shall we test your theory and see if you can hold out for another hour or two?”

His eyes go intent and defenseless and his tongue darts over his lips before he speaks. “I’d,” he says, voice trembling again, “prefer the former, frankly.”

She laughs at him, quietly. “Of course you would.” She doesn’t go for her whip.

His arms are hanging by his sides and she sees his hands clench with stifled energy, with need. He licks his lips again. “Megaera,” he says, and she knows this voice; it’s the careful, rational tone that marks his last holdout against complete babbling incoherence. “Please.”

Leisurely, she shifts her weight from one leg to the other and crosses her arms. She raises one eyebrow. 

“Please,” he says again, his voice growing tighter, “Meg, please, you’ve no idea how much I’ve missed it—how much I’ve thought about it, every time I see you—”

She scoffs. “ _Every_ time, Zagreus?”

“ _Yes_.”

And she believes him, but it baffles her. She wants to ask him how. _Why_. When all they’ve been doing recently is fighting to the death, when she sees him out there and takes out her whip with the intention to kill—he has bested her more often than not, recently, but the intention alone should be enough to dissuade him from _this_. From wanting to put himself at her mercy again. 

But no one in Zagreus’s life has ever accused him of being sensible, have they?

He opens his mouth to try again but stops when Megaera takes one step forward. She leans in, over him, and closes her hand around her whip. “Strip,” she orders in a voice barely over a whisper, “and stand against the wall.”

He makes a soft sound of assent and hurries to obey, standing so quickly that he almost overbalances, unbuckling his pauldron with hands that Megaera can see shaking. Then his belt, his overtunic, his chiton; he forgets that his greaves have to come off _before_ his leggings and his cock is left bobbing, exposed to the air, as he bends to unbuckle them. Megaera does snicker at him for that. His hands slip on the burnished bronze in response. 

And then he is stripped bare, revealed, and he takes his place with his hands braced against the wall, and Megaera makes him wait a little longer because she wants to see him. She wants to see the elegant shapes of his muscles, the strength in his shoulders, the tight curve of his ass and the definition in his legs. She wants to see, too, the way his ribs expand and contract with steady breaths. His breath hitches when she takes one soft step forward. 

Then, without further warning, she raises her whip and strikes him cleanly across the back. 

The satisfying _thwt_ of the leather against his skin is complemented by the way he exhales all at once in a throaty huff. But as she lifts her arm again, he speaks. 

“Meg—sorry—” He glances sheepishly over his shoulder. “I, ah, I think my pain tolerance has increased.”

A beat. “Of course it has,” she answers, tone sardonic as though it’s something he’s done on purpose to annoy her. Although she’s a bit embarrassed that didn’t occur to her, considering everything he puts himself through. She nods for him to face the wall again, and this time she throws the lash harder. 

“Mmph…!” Zagreus twitches as it hits him, but that’s a sound of vague discomfort, not of real pain. He wants more. His breath is patient as she toys with the whip’s handle, as she watches red welts bloom on his back. 

Then another lash, and this is the one. There is a sharper edge to the impact and the noise Zagreus makes is the one she remembers, the one that hovers between a moan and the beginnings of a hoarse scream. His legs shake. “ _Meg_ ,” he says, hopelessly wanting. 

“I know.” She commits the feeling of the strike to memory. “Fifty of those.”

A dizzy nod from him. “I’ll—I’ll count,” he offers.

She snorts. “You’ll lose track,” she points out, and besides, he’s never liked being conscious of how long he must bear what she has for him. She’ll count in her head, instead, and to him it will feel endless, and by the time she’s done he’ll be a bloody, dazed mess under her attentions. 

She did miss this, honestly. 

Because there’s something _about_ being wanted like this; there’s something about the way Zag lets all his defenses fall away and lets her tear into him. Welcomes it, even. There’s something about his ragged breaths and the way even when they shift towards screams there is a moan underlying each sound he makes. At thirty-five she begins breaking the skin, and at forty-three he’s near his limit, bending in towards the wall and leaning on his forearms instead of his hands. But he makes it to fifty. He likely could have made it beyond, even—Megaera suspects he lost count long ago and wouldn’t have known if she continued past what she promised—but instead she grants him a moment’s breath, a pause to let his rational mind catch up with his body. Then, when he realizes it’s over and sags against the wall, she steps forward and creeps one hand between his legs to wrap around his cock. He lets out a long, obscene moan as she begins to jerk him off, and his hips twitch unevenly. With her other hand, she presses him against the wall, feeling his blood well up under her palm and feeling the way his lungs struggle against her weight. “Meg—” he pants, just once, and that’s the last of his verbal ability; after that it’s moans and choked whines and before long at all he comes in her hand with a broken groan.

He gets a moment to catch his breath; then she wraps her bloodied hand around his chin and demands a kiss from him. He meets it with another whine and kisses back hungrily, taking everything she has for him. Finally she lets go and steps back. He looks at her, eyes stunned and blissed out.

“Wow,” he breathes.

She smirks at him, sharing in the satisfaction of the moment. Then she looks down at her hand, smeared red with his blood. “I need to wash,” she says. “Do you still have that fountain…?”

He waves dreamily, his cheek smooshed against the wall. “Go towards the courtyard, your first right,” he says. “I suppose I’ll need it too, won’t I.”

“You certainly will,” she answers, with a note of pride in her voice.

“You first,” he says. Generous, if not for the fact that his legs probably won’t even carry him that far until he pulls himself together. “I’m just going to…” Another dreamy wave instead of finishing his sentence, and then his eyes find hers and focus. “Thank you,” he says.

Sincerity oozes out of him, just as it always has. Megaera snorts, delicately, and turns away to go clean up. 


End file.
